


Red Ink Poetry

by ninhursag



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Body Calligraphy, D/s, Humiliation, Jealousy, Kink Meme, M/M, Perversion, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninhursag/pseuds/ninhursag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Mark gets Eduardo to hold still, digs out a pen and writes horrible things all over him in English, binary code, Latin, Hebrew, etc, and Eduardo hates it and loves it. And then Mark gets carried away and lays the cards on the table about what he really thinks.</p><p>Contains consensual, but probably unhealthy, humiliation kink and d/s. Eduardo is an emo-muffin. Basically, kinkmemes make me an enormous pervert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Ink Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> If you found this story by googling your name, turn back now, for god's sake. It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with my demented imagination and actors looking pretty, just...no. Sorry, really.
> 
> Also, with apologies to Catullus, who probably doesn't much mind having his words misused at this late date, wherever he rests.

Eduardo's dressed to go out, shiny and put together in a gray button down shirt and Armani slacks, peacoat slung over his shoulder and swinging easily when Mark stops him. Eduardo doesn't fight it, never even tries, not when that sharp, unrelentingly blue stare flickers and focuses on him and Mark presses the palm of his hand flat against his chest, just below his heart.

They've done this before, though not often. Often enough that he shudders and stills and waits, even though he was supposed to... even though it was a date and they're going to think... he should at least call, but...

“No, you're going to stay. Take off your clothes, get on the bed and lay down on your back,” Mark says.

Mark's lips are tight and now he's not looking at Eduardo anymore, staring past him, like he's on to something better and more interesting in his head. Eduardo shivers. He lets the coat drop to the floor.

If Mark is more interested in watching him strip than the wall over his shoulder, Eduardo can't tell. It doesn't matter, by the time, by the time he's pulling his boxers down he's half hard anyway, mouth dry and goose-flesh running up his arms. He bends over to pick up his things, so he can fold them, so he can--

“No,” Mark says. “Leave them. Get on the bed.” Eduardo's head bobs, slow and unsteady. He can feel the flush of heat starting in his face, knows he's blushing to his neck. He goes, leaving his things in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The wool of the blanket is scratchy against his ass and shoulders, and he squirms against it. Mark stays where he is in the center of the room for a long, long stretched out moment. Then he turns around and walks back over to the desk in the corner and for a wild second Eduardo thinks that he's going to-- what? Go back to his laptop while Eduardo is lying spread out in his bed? And that thought shouldn't, should not make his cock twitch against his thigh.

But, no, Mark doesn't settle, he just picks something up off the desk, a felt tipped pen, smooth and red. Eduardo blinks and shifts up on his elbows, trying to see what he's doing better.

“I said, lie down,” Mark says, though how he knew Eduardo wasn't when he didn't seem to be looking at him is a mystery. Eduardo thinks about asking what they're doing, but the thought of saying-- of doing-- no. He lays back down and Mark walks up to the bed. “Spread your knees,” he says and Eduardo does. Wide, wider, widest, until Mark climbs in between them. He's still dressed in his cargo pants and hoodie, just kicked off his flip-flops before climbing into bed and Eduardo wonders if he's going to be...

But all Mark does is pop the cap off the pen and stare down at Eduardo like he was looking for something. Eduardo watches Mark's face while Mark looks him over, flushed face to half hard cock, slow, speculative. Then he stops-- there's a yellow-green half healed bruise on Eduardo's hip, blotchy and wide, like the pressure of someone's hand. Mark prods it with two fingers from his free hand once, hard, and Eduardo gasps at the sudden burst of pain, sharp and vicious.

“You're dating a dick,” Mark says, tracing the edge of the bruise and then down to the next one. He sounds, factual and unsympathetic, and he never looks up. “You really get off on people who treat you like trash, Eduardo. Do you know what that makes you?”

Eduardo shrugs, still nothing to say. Mark makes a scoffing noise and skims his hand up Eduardo's chest. There are more marks, half healed bruises in a trail until he reaches the red indentation of teeth around his nipples. Mark sticks the pen cap between his lips without even seeming to think about it and leans down, as if he's trying to get a closer look.

There's a second of anticipation just ahead of the press of the pen against skin. It's cold and surprisingly sharp and Eduardo winces on pure instinct. Mark's hand on his chest presses him down hard until he goes still. “It makes you a slut,” Mark says, the obscenity making his mouth curl around the pen. “Because, really, what kind of a person goes panting after someone who doesn't give a shit about him? It makes you _pathetic_.”

The pen scratches and when he cranes his neck, Eduardo can see the words spilling out of it. _Slut, whore, pathetic_ in loopy, cramped handwriting. The ink smudges when he shivers, smearing like misapplied make-up, whore red lipstick on his skin.

“This is annoying, Eduardo, you're going to have to stop squirming.” But Eduardo can't, not when the pen traces around the vicious sucking bruise right under his collar bone, like Mark's sketching it out in crimson. Mark sighs noisily. “How about we try this? If you keep moving, I'll take you out into the hall and march you around like this. I'll write what I think of you right on your face so no one misses it. I wonder if someone will take a picture and post it on the Internet,” he says.

It's like ice in his veins, the suggestion, the thought-- trying to wash the ink off his-- and pictures, everyone-- and Mark would-- Eduardo shakes his head once, sharply, goes lax and still under Mark's palm, but his cock is pressed up against his belly now. Moving when he breathes, when the pen in Mark's hand drags across his skin.

_~~mea~~  
 ~~ille Eduardo~~ illa Lesbia, ~~unam plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes, nunc in quadriviis et angiportis~~ ista cum lingua, si usus ueniat tibi, possis culos et crepidas lingere carpatinas_

Insults, sick shit he didn't even know that Mark thought, that anyone had ever thought, even that guy he was supposed to be eating dinner with (getting screwed up against the back alley wall, palm flat against the graffiti and there were bruises and he picked himself up and all he could smell was trash, _whore_ ) on and on until it's not even words anymore it's just--

_01101101 01111001 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101111 01110010 01100101 00101110 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110101 01110100 01101001 01100110 01110101 01101100 00101100 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110000 01101001 01100101 01100011 01100101 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01110100 01110010 01100001 01110011 01101000 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100101 00101110_

In straggling, uneven rows across his chest, Mark's face screwed up tight in concentration, back translating, he doesn't know, he doesn't know what it says. His mouth is open and he's panting, breathing too hard but he holds still, while Mark writes on him like he's that fucking back alley wall, something to be defaced, marked up and over. Lines down his stomach that say--

_01001001 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110011 01101111 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110000 01101001 01110100 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110000 01101001 01110100_

And Mark's breathing just as hard as he is, eyes narrow, shifting back on his heels. He's wearing loose pants, can't even tell if he's hard, and Eduardo wonders if he even... if this is...

“I should buy a tattoo pen,” Mark says. His voice is so flat, always flat, no affect even worse than before. All of his emotion is in his hands and those are firm and unyielding. “I saw one on ebay-- I could use your credit card. Then when I did this to you, you could never walk around without a shirt again. You could never let anyone see you naked again except for when I...” his voice stops, but his pen doesn't.

Eduardo gasps, hears himself, a low, tearing sound caught high in his throat. The pen drags down, a sharp line across his thigh. In circles, handwriting turned to loops and obscene references as it slides across his balls and he can't keep still, but he has to keep still, because Mark, he...

 _Filthy fucking toy_ in red across the side of his cock and his hips ache from the pressure of not moving them, of not... but then in small, small numbers, pinkpricks of pressure on the other side is _01100010 01100101 01100001 01110101 01110100 01101001 01100110 01110101 01101100_.

The last zero finished, Mark presses a period against the sensitive head of Eduardo's cock that draws out another strangled whimper. He caps the pen closed. “Lift your knees up to your chest,” Mark tells him, ignoring the sound, ignoring everything.

Eduardo's thighs are trembling and his cock aches, heavy and tight, but he does it, knees pressing up, higher when Mark positions him with his hands. Spread open and exposed, his cock leaving smears of precome on his belly, covering up the ink.

Mark slides the length of the pen between his lips, tongue sliding out to toy with it while he uses his hands to push Eduardo up a little more, spread him a little more. Then he stops, shakes his head, and looks away, frowning at something, like it's not enough, like whatever he's done, whatever he's seeing, isn't close to good enough. Eduardo bites his lower lip, staring up, up, and then Mark looks down at him and shakes his head.

Even then, there is nothing readable there, not in that blue stare, just the bare edges of frustration that make Eduardo quiver in response. Mark closes his eyes and lays his palms on Eduardo's shaking, knotted up thighs. “You... how can you be so fucking...” Mark says. “I don't even know what--”

Then he seems to decide what, mid-sentence. He steadies himself, uncaps that damned pen again and writes. Eduardo can't see, it's on the backs of his thighs, the curve of his upraised ass, the inside boundaries of leg. Eduardo can't see what's written so he can only imagine and it makes his face flame and his cock ache.

It seems to take forever, a year, a day, an hour, but Mark's look of concentration never founders, like defacing Eduardo's body is as important as coding. But even coding ends and finally, Mark nods to himself and says, “There. There. That's what it is.”

Mark caps the pen and slides it between his lips one final time, but this time is not careless but deliberate. Slick red length of tongue, gliding on the plastic length like he's sucking it off, like he's... he presses one palm against Eduardo's ass, holding him still and open, still, while he pushes the pen up against him, pressure, dull ache and the thing, he forces it _inside_ with one relentlessly steady shove. That fucking pen, inside him, he can't even... he clenches around it like...

Too much too much too and then Mark's hand is on his dick, smearing wet ink and filth and zeros and ones--

“Look at me,” Mark says and Eduardo does, those damned cold, cold blue eyes. “Now come.” He does. Eyes wide open and staring straight ahead, shaking like a leaf with Mark's hands on him and Mark's pen shoved up inside him.

He's bright red after, still breathing too hard, still shaking, holding his now slick thighs up to his come soaked belly when Mark reaches over to the nightstand for the shaving mirror. “Here,” he says. “You need to see this.”

Eduardo shakes his head and tries to turn away. He doesn't want to see what Mark wrote in those places, the backs of his thighs and along the cleft of his ass. What he can see is enough, enough.

He winces away when Mark presses a hand against his cheek and angles the mirror so he'd see anyway if he just looked. He's still shaking his head, squeezing his eyes shut. His eyes... they feel wet, sore, like he's the one who'd been staring at a computer screen for days without let up.

“No more,” he whispers. It's the first thing he's said since this started, but his voice feels trashed, used up like he's been screaming. “Please, I'll give like, a blow job, or you can fuck me or whatever, but no-- don't-- enough.”

He hears Mark's sharp intake of breath. “Wardo, just-- just trust me. This time, just-- look,” and he doesn't sound flat now, somehow he doesn't, he sounds high pitched and strange and young. Eduardo shudders and opens his eyes. He can't, he can't, but he can't say no to Mark like that, not when he sounds like that. He opens his eyes even as he keeps shaking his head no, no, no, but he still looks because Mark...

He expects filth, more of it, but he sees...

The mirror shows it to him backwards, but he can read it in Mark's shaky, cramped script. Most of it isn't even in English, just an insane jumble of binary code mixed in with Greek and Hebrew letters, intersecting. He can pick out a few from half remembered teenage lessons, he thinks, but nothing that makes sense, there's a word for God (one of the words it's sacrilege to write on skin, to write at all) and that one there means לשמוע... להקשיב... שלי. hear.. listen... and...mine, that word means _mine_.

Eduardo breathes out.

In one corner, just along the skin of the joint where ass meets thigh, underlined for emphasis, it says:

_IF exist M &E echo ∞  
else  
IF exist M&E echo (x2 + y2 − 1)3 − x2y3 = 0 implicitly_  
 ~~If~~  
 **IT'S JUST YOU**

He blinks, blinks again and raises his chin slowly, so that he's finally, finally looking Mark in the eyes no flinching, and Mark is looking back at him.

"I don't understand--" he starts to say and Mark shakes his head and then presses a kiss to his mouth in a fast, jerky motion. It's dry but hard, raspy with late day stubble.

"Whatever you need, I can do it for you," Mark tells him, and his hands shake and his mouth shakes. "If this is what you need, I can be it for you. You don't need that guy, those... _I can_."

Eduardo shudders, from head to toe, before he reaches up to wrap his hand around the back of Mark's neck and pull him back down. Mark's mouth tastes of plastic and cola and the kiss is tender and hard by turns. He gives as good as he gets.


End file.
